


Salivate

by hornybraincell



Series: Max's Kinktober Drabbles 2020 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dimitri Has a Pussy, Forced Hair Cutting, M/M, Mob/Dimitri - Freeform, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornybraincell/pseuds/hornybraincell
Summary: A knife scraps at the base of your neck, cold and sharp, and you give a shiver. You think it might break the skin, but it’s hard to tell, because three fingers have just entered you; thick, calloused, and dry. No warning, no opening you up. You shriek around the cotton in your mouth.Spit runs down your face. You cannot tell what you feel more intensely: fear, or embarrassment.You certainly do not feel like a king.Kinktober Day 4:Cunnilingus
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Other(s)
Series: Max's Kinktober Drabbles 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948165
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Salivate

**Author's Note:**

> heyo! sorry if u got the notif in ur inbox twice. i accidentally posted the unedited version of this first where i switched pov halfway through lmfao
> 
> the person who req'd the cunnilingus prompt specifically asked for mob/dimitri noncon "warming him up." hope you enjoy it, friend! <3
> 
> pls note! dimitri has a vagina in this fic. if you choose to read that as trans dimitri, hell yeah! if you choose to read that as dimitri just has a vagina, also hell yeah! i didn't tag for "trans dimitri" because there are stories where i explicitly choose to explore a character's gender identity and will tag if i intend for them to be read as trans. but there are also stories where i give a character genitalia and explore no further. as a trans person, this sort of normalization of genitalia can be comforting to me. it isn't for everyone – which is why i leave it up to reader interp! :)

“It’s him,” is the first thing you hear upon waking.

That isn’t the voice of any of your soldiers. You urge your brain to recall your last memory. A courier. An urgent message. Riding out to a rendezvous. And then –

Nothing more.  _ An ambush. _

“Yeah, shit, that’s His Majesty alright,” says another voice, this one low and scratchy to the first’s high and nasally. It’s hard to concentrate, your head feels as if it's been knocked around, and you let yourself take inventory of your limbs. “That’s not what I expected. What the fuck do we do?”

You are sitting on a chair. Hands – bound. And your body –

Your body is naked.

The voice is still talking, coming from somewhere high and to your left. When you turn your head to look at your captors, your neck lolls. Your good eye feels swollen. You can taste the metal of blood in your teeth.

“Finally awake, are you?” they’re asking.

You try to answer, but you are gagged. The man is large. Larger than you. You don’t recognize him. A foot soldier in Her Majesty’s troops.

“Should we wait for His Lordship?”

A snort from the nasally one.

“All His Lordship will do is interrogate, maybe a little pain before taking him back to the Capital. We should warm him up, at least.”

“Make him talk?”

“Make his cunt wet. Leave the gag in. Wanna hear him scream around it.”

Even through the haze of whatever they’ve given you, panic settles in at those words. What had felt so clinical just a moment ago –  _ you are naked –  _ now feels dire. There is nothing between you and them.

And they are cheering, their spirits are up, they are  _ pleased _ by the idea. You shake.

“Maybe rough him up a bit too. Cut his pretty blonde hair.”

Hands around your neck, around your shoulders. On your thighs, parting your legs. Your wrists will chafe if you continue pulling at your restraints, but you have never wanted more to cover yourself.

A knife scraps at the base of your neck, cold and sharp, and you give a shiver. You think it might break the skin, but it’s hard to tell, because three fingers have just entered you; thick, calloused, and dry. No warning, no opening you up. You shriek around the cotton in your mouth.

Spit runs down your face. You cannot tell what you feel more intensely: fear, or embarrassment.

You certainly do not feel like a king.

“This hair is dirty anyway. This is wartime hair. Might freshen it up.”

You inhale sharply and refuse to let a tear come from your eye. You will not cry. You will not cry, they will not humiliate you like this. Your hair, your body, this thing that had felt so out of your hands, you have taken back your autonomy, and they will not –

You know the moment that it happens. And if a tear slips down your face, it’s from the cold. You are not crying you will not cry and you will not –

You  _ scream _ as a tongue enters you and it’s so quiet through the cotton compared to the sound that you know rips from your throat. You can feel the pain and you try and concentrate on it so that you don’t have to concentrate on the wetness from your traitorous cunt.

But you can’t.

They’re tonguing you now and you wish they wouldn’t. The thing about – using their fingers, or their cocks, is that it hurts, and the ache is comforting in its loyalty. Your body feels as you do.

But their tongues do not hurt as they lick up your folds, and enter you with no permission, and you leak against the cheeks of his captors and you are  _ disgusted. _

You hate this. You hate yourself, you hate the way they nip at your clit and how a tooth scraping along your labia feels and how thumbs knead against your opening and the roughness of tongue on your pussy and this is awful this is wrong and you want it to stop and –

If it weren’t for the rawness in your throat, you wouldn’t know you were screaming. There are too many hands. Too little hair.

They wring an orgasm out of you, like leading a mother wyvern away from her cubs, to take her to battle. You do not want to, but you are forced too, quaking and clenching around the abhorrent tongue inside of you.

When the captor pulls away, the spit feels cold. It’s winter. You’re freezing.

But –

“He’s all warmed up, I think.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments immensely appreciated if you enjoyed. pls exit out if you didn't! <3


End file.
